


One-point-seven

by umbrellamemos



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bloodplay, Blow Jobs, M/M, Suit Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-01
Updated: 2012-08-01
Packaged: 2017-11-11 04:28:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umbrellamemos/pseuds/umbrellamemos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A postscript to the apple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One-point-seven

**Author's Note:**

> Very slightly dub-con, in that no consent is explicitly given. But Sherlock is fully capable and aware of what's happening, so I attribute that to Sheriarty being the pairing it is. Slight bloodplay.
> 
> I really intend to write a second part to this, but it's late and I really just need to get this thing posted.

Three steps and a pause. There’s a creak, Moriarty shifting his weight? And then nothing. He’s just standing on the landing. Sherlock stares at the impaled apple, mouth slightly open, counting breaths. Not his own--though, now that you’ve mentioned it, his are slightly more labored than they should be. Thirty five seconds exactly, another creak. Protesting wood. Moriarty’s turning back to face the door.  
Sherlock sits down again, in his own chair this time. He steeples his hands in front of his face and closes his eyes. He tries to go to his mind palace, to organize some of the information he’s taken in but apparently Moriarty has the key to that too and the spider’s just standing. Balanced on the balls of his feet, staring at peeling wood.  
Were he, oh were he a patient man. He isn’t. Sherlock grabs for his violin, yanking a hissing shriek out of the strings before he even gets it to his chin. He plays the most hideous noises he can think of, ones usually reserved only for Mycroft. No reaction from the door. He switches tactics, runs through Bach and Sarasate and Chaconne. All of the ones John loves. The door remains, stubbornly, a door.  
In his head, he throws the violin away, but before his hands have quite caught up with him they’re playing something else, an Irish lullabye. Three bars in and the door is ajar and Moriarty is clapping, too loudly. Sherlock grins, and adds a point under his name in their ledger. He lets the violin fall, then, and sinks back into his chair.  
“You didn’t finish your tea.”  
Moriarty nods, hands in his pockets, expression vacant. He doesn’t move to sit, but he doesn’t leave again either, and his heel kicks the door closed without moving the rest of him. Sherlock gives himself another point.   
“No, I didn’t. I did like it though, delicious, really. You’ve gotten very domestic.” Jim’s teeth are sharp enough that Sherlock’s honestly surprised he hasn’t bitten his tongue off, with all of his drawling. The teeth click shut, and the spider’s moving, walking to the mantle and running his fingertips over the skull. His skull. Sherlock stands up, then notices he’s done so and frowns. No retreating now, that would be a point to Moriarty.   
He walks over to stand a few inches away from the grey suit, though the proximity and implied threat of physical contact make him feel a bit ill. It’s a deep seated nausea, something that carries with it the barest hint of a chocolatey desire to push forward. Moriarty can smell it, of course, and his index finger and thumb articulate themselves carefully around Sherlock’s wrist. There’s an almost audible clink when they connect, Sherlock can feel the cold in his bones.  
The situation hangs, for a moment, on the fact that they are both far past smart enough to know that John will not return for at least twenty minutes. John with his sense and his jumpers and his pistol, with all of his implicit morality, will not be able to interrupt. Sherlock doesn’t pull his hand away. Moriarty’s mouth smiles.  
The teeth are exactly as sharp as he’d thought they would be, of course, he’d done rough calculations from easily accessible visual data. What Sherlock hadn’t bothered to calculate was how quickly that meant they’d sink into the thin skin above his wrist, parting the organ in a slippery, snake-like dive. He knows, now, it’s one-point-seven seconds before Moriaty’s blood-stained mouth lifts off and gives his shocked body back the freedom of movement to collapse to his knees.  
The spider grip on his wrist hasn’t wavered, keeping one of Sherlock’s arms raised over his head, a silent plea. The blood on Moriarty’s mouth looks like it’s filling in something that was missing, taking the place of something that should have been there all along. Sherlock’s head tips back as Moriarty bends towards him, making room for the kiss laid on his forehead. The pit in his stomach tightens, once, acid streaming through his veins, and then it dissolves. This is benediction.  
He is utterly unsurprised when Moriarty’s other hand opens the zip of his pants, pushing aside silk to free a disinterested cock. He is slightly more surprised when the spider’s fingers are gentle on his jaw, opening him up before pushing the soft head inside, letting it rest on his tongue.  
“Suck.”  
It’s stating the obvious, really, of course Sherlock knows what’s expected, but the command jumpstarts parts of his brain that had been balking at the very idea, and he hollows his cheeks. The first couple sucks are awkward, Moriarty’s cock flaccid and difficult to keep in his mouth, but the spider reacts like any other mammal and soon there’s blood pumping through his veins.  
Sherlock is grateful for the hand in his hair, and the grip on his wrist. He’s grateful in the basest possible way, because this frees him from trying to decide what to do with his limbs. His mouth is full and his head’s being steered inexorably backwards and forwards, thin fingers tangled in his hair and teasing at the follicles.  
Moriarty doesn’t waste time, Sherlock is having a hard time discerning if the spider’s getting anything out of this physical experience other than warmth and wetness and a suitable amount of friction. His pulse is hardly elevated, his breathing is even, and when he digs his nails in Sherlock’s scalp and comes down his throat, the teeth are silent.  
The fingers in his hair remain, once the cock is out of his mouth and tucked away again, they pull his head forward to rest briefly against a grey Westwood thigh. In Sherlock’s dazed acquiescence, a point goes to Moriarty.


End file.
